


The Cold of An Early Winter's Chill

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Death, Dark, HP: EWE, M/M, undiluted evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They stand at some strange, silent impasse for what seems hours. It is like there is nothing else to the world but their solid bodies standing in the cold of an early winter's chill. Draco knows instantly that something is not right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold of An Early Winter's Chill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/profile)[**hd_fan_fair**](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/) for a time travel prompt. I also drew a bit of art to go along with it.  
>  much love and adoration and improper fondlage goes to [](http://nolagal.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolagal**](http://nolagal.livejournal.com/) for the quick beta and to [](http://users.livejournal.com/_aurora_sky_/profile)[**_aurora_sky_**](http://users.livejournal.com/_aurora_sky_/) for the artistic assistance. You two are amazing.

  
  


They stand at some strange, silent impasse for what seems hours. Potter searches him, those eyes hard on his own, the wind whipping at their backs. For the time they stand unspeaking, it is like there is nothing else to the world but their solid bodies standing in the cold of an early winter's chill. Draco knows instantly that something is not right.

It is in Potter's eyes, a cold and dull lifelessness that has never been there before. He stands with a sneer on his face, his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose from some blood from the scar on his forehead. Draco has never seen it bleed before; the sight is so grotesque that there are no words in Draco to combat it, no breath left in his lungs to scream against the injustice. Potter's teeth are sharp, too sharp, and his cheeks are sallow, too sallow, and Draco cannot count the number of imperfections of the moment on one hand. Potter's clothes are different, his hair, his demeanor, his expression, his attitude—everything is frighteningly out of control.

"What happened to you?" Draco asks, his eyes glossy and wide.

Potter laughs. It is mirthless and detached, the sound of it shattering whatever sanity Draco has left. "The question is, what happened to _you_?"

Draco has no answer. He reaches under his cloak to find a means to end this, but his fingers slip. He does not realise at first that he is bleeding too. When he does, it is too late.

________

The trials are long and dull. Draco aches to leave but cannot help the clench of guilt as he listens to the charges. _Criminal negligence… use of multiple Unforgivables… torture… misuse of magic… public menacing… kidnapping… coercion and blackmail against the Ministry of Magic… murder…_. The list goes on for so long that Draco's mind wanders.

He has heard these charges before. The trials all seem the same. The only real change is that it is his mother's turn at the stand. Father was easy—Azkaban was a given, so Draco said goodbye early. But Mother is different; her proud face is covered in tears, there are rings the colour of soured cream beneath her eyes, and the sprinkles of gray she has been dying off for years are pronounced, weaving through her hair like ugly little veins to prove her age. In fact, her hair looks unkempt and haggard, like she isn't a wealthy Pureblood at all but a common Muggle living in the dung and begging on street corners. It makes Draco's skin crawl to see her like that.

The Wizengamot seems sympathetic to her pleas, to her honesty, to the break in her voice as she recounts her futile attempts to save her family from the madness that overwhelmed them. She has lost everything—her husband, her sister, her sanity, even her son.

Draco sits above and behind her, marshaled by two Aurors with burly arms and egos the size of giants. He wonders idly if they are really afraid a stick of a boy like Draco would do them harm when he hasn't been allowed access to his wand in months. Does he even remember how spells are done? All things considered, Draco feels incredibly weak and drowsy, like he could lie down on the hard stone floor and fall asleep.

He is drugged a bit. Pumped full of something that makes him drool and keeps his bones so heavy he can't raise his right hand without a struggle. _That's what happens when you try to call out for your father one last time and the Aurors misinterpret your fear for an attack_ , Draco thinks. He would sneer if he had the strength. It is all so ridiculous, so stupid, to drug him and force him to watch. His own trial will come soon, just like his father’s and mother’s. They will all end the same. It’s all the same.

Lazily, his gaze shifts, admiring the fine crowd the Malfoy trials have brought. They grow every time. People love a good show, love to watch with baited breath for sentences that don't belong to them, love to be the one ahead of the gossip, able to tell their spouses and friends and strangers on the bloody street how _they_ were the first and _they_ saw the tears running down her pale cheeks. People love to watch. Just like the Death Eaters, hungry for vengeance and a false sense of security. It makes Draco sick, how they're all the same. He feels no different at the hands of manhandling Aurors than when the Death Eaters lived at Malfoy Manor and grabbed his arms in fists of iron grips to haul him before the Dark Lord.

There is a strange face that catches his eye across the way. He thinks...but then, he is too tired to be able to process all this correctly. When he blinks, the face is gone, a pale ghost weaving through the black density of the crowd. Draco watches, feels heavy with uncertainty as the trial goes on and that sharp expression distracts his mind.

It ends just as Draco thought it would—life sentence in Azkaban. No chance for parole.

Draco is allowed a moment to say goodbye, in front of the crowds and cameras and buzzards waiting for blood and sweat and tears. He approaches slowly, thinks maybe this is all a dream and hopes that it is until his heart clenches up in realisation—there’s absolutely no mistaking the heavy reality that sinks his shoulders like lead weights.

"Mum," he sobs, reaching for her.

Draco is led out with the two Aurors flanking him like Crabbe and Goyle used to, the circle repetitive and grave and dull. He is slumped, allowing himself to be dragged along by their strength. But when he spots Harry Potter arguing with Shacklebolt a few steps away, it catches his interest enough to momentarily pull him out of the stupor. He is only able to make out part of the conversation as he is removed from the scene.

_"…you know I wanted to be there… told you I was running late… Please, let me at least leave it on her file…"_

Potter's eyes catch Draco's just before the lift doors close. Draco thinks Potter looks tired and sad, but Draco is tired too. Everyone is tired these days. Tired, tired, tired…

________

"You thought you could save everyone," Potter whispers. His hand is around Draco's throat before Draco can move, before he can summon a wand. "But look at you! You can't even save yourself."

Draco is on his knees, suffocating. He meets Potter's gaze, whispers little apologies to the cold, cold night as his lips go blue. The only thing he can focus on is Potter's wicked, awful, humiliating sneer and how distorted he is in the hush of the moonlight. Potter looks like a demon unleashed from hell, screaming the coming of the end with a single chuckle.

And just like that, Draco knows fear and loneliness and heartbreak and wishes he could have done it all differently, that he could take back his misdeeds, that he had more time, that it had never spiraled so far beyond his control, and wishes and wishes and wishes…

________

The explosion is an accident. That's what they tell Draco when he stands before them. _A horrible accident_ which unfortunately _could not be remedied_ and to which _there is only one witness_ who, again unfortunately, _did not see who caused the accident_.

Draco knows it is bullshit, knows that the reason his parents are dead is because everyone wants them to be dead and nobody would ever save them when they are in trouble. The one single witness that allowed a sliver of hope to clutch at Draco's chest is the one person Draco is positive wouldn't help, even if he knew what happened—it is Potter, with his high horse and his lofty scar and all his bloody heroics that amount for nothing except an empty hole in Draco's heart and a flip-flop of his stomach that knots him in two.

Potter tells him what happened, in false and practised tones that belie his true intensions. He says it like it is a story to be told, like Draco should be thankful for his being there to recount it, and even says that he's sorry, which only makes Draco laugh.

The mysterious explosion on the cliffs of Azkaban Prison took out one single block of cells. The only inmates that occupied the cells were Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy—the other six enclosures were, at the time, empty. _It sounds suspicious_ , Potter says. _Things should be investigated_ , Potter implores.

 _I thought I saw…but it couldn't be,_ Potter whines.

Draco is tired of it. Is tired of everything. Of every little arsehole who thinks he knows what it is to love their families in their quiet little suburban happinesses with their roads paved with good intensions and their tried-and-true affections with embraces warm as sunlight. They know nothing of familial devotion, of courage under the watchful eyes of evil, beneath the cloak of darkness because in the daylight they can't bear to look in the mirror. They know nothing of what it means to love and to be loved in return, to know the wrong from the right and the bad from the good but do the awful, terrible, nasty, unspeakable things anyway, because otherwise they will die. And now they _are_ dead, and Potter is standing there with a slack jaw and tight shoulders saying how sorry he is and that things should be fucking investigated!

"Sod investigations," Draco snaps, tears in his angry, red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sure you would just love to get your heroic hands on my parents' files, Potter, but for once, you won't be getting exactly what you want."

Draco marches out of the Minister for Magic's office with his head held high. He cannot breathe, cannot blink, cannot feel. There is nothing except a void where the love for his parents used to dwell. He is empty and gutted, and there is nothing anyone can do.

________

" _Wait_."

The cold, nasal voice is one from Draco's worst nightmares. He knows it like the rise of hair at the back of his neck and the gooseflesh on his forearms and the choked feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with Potter's hand on his throat.

"My Lord?" Potter asks, fingers still tight enough to do damage on Draco's already-blueing throat.

"I said _let go_. Or I will make you let go."

Potter does what he's told instantly, steps back as if struck, and bows low at his waist. If Draco wasn't already nauseous from the travel and the haste and all the lost hours, he would be from the sight of Harry Potter, bowing before Voldemort like a perfect little servant. There is something inherently frightening in the moment, and it is worse when Draco realises the chain around his neck has slipped away. When he sees it clutched in Voldemort's white hand, Draco cannot bear the shame. Inside, something breaks, something precious and hopeful and close to his chest like the love for his parents, who he tried so endlessly to save.

It is then that Voldemort smiles.

________

"There _is_ something you can do," Blaise says. His voice is pure honey to a buzzing bee. "Sod waiting for an investigation, Draco—you need to do a little detective work yourself. Go back to Azkaban, see what transpired."

"And how am I to do that with Potter and his groupies breathing down the back of my neck at every turn? If I leave the Manor, every Auror in the Ministry will be on my arse, casting Unforgiveables without a thought."

“I still don’t understand how you got out of a life sentence,” Blaise murmurs.

“What was that?”

“ _Nothing_. I’m just...thinking.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence over drinks. Draco pours himself a hearty serving, wonders if there is any arsenic left from the Ministry raids so he can do away with himself and Blaise as well in one fell swoop.

"What about Potter?" Blaise asks.

"What _about_ him? You think he's going to help me, after all these years? After he watched my parents get blown to bits and pretends he couldn't have stopped whoever did it?" Draco scoffs, then tips back the remainder of his drink, which is god-awful and dry.

Blaise leans in, catches Draco's wrist with his long, dark fingers before Draco can pour himself another glass. "I think Potter feels guilty, and you know how guilt can eat away at the weak, make them think they owe someone something, that they can help set things right."

Draco focuses on Blaise's sharp sneer, at the way his beautiful lips quirk dangerously high, and instantly, Draco knows that Blaise is right. Potter is the only person in the world who can help him, because he is the most gullible person in the world, the one person whose guilt could be easily corrupted under the guise of good will.

"But how to reach him," Blaise muses, fingertips tracing circles along Draco's skin like a spider weaving a web. "Do you know what I would like?"

Draco sneers, pulling his hand away. "I do."

Blaise rolls his eyes. "Not that. Although—"

" _What_ then, Blaise?"

As Blaise leans back to pour himself another glass, he fixes Draco with a subtle, steady look. "I would like to go back in time to see precisely what happened at Azkaban, see what Potter isn't telling you."

"Brilliant. Please, pick me up a Time-Turner for my birthday." Draco scoffs, corks the bottle to signal the evening has come to its inevitable end, but the look on Blaise's face stops him.

"You know who's got a Time-Turner, don't you?"

The conclusion comes to Draco as Blaise leans forward to stroke his hand again.

"Potter," Draco whispers, his lips lingering on the softness of the syllables, the hush of the moment and the promise of what is to come.

It is almost too quickly that Draco begins to formulate a plan. With a Time-Turner, Draco knows he is not limited to simply _seeing_ the events—a Pensieve would do for such a simple act as that. No, with a Time-Turner, Draco can seek ultimate retribution: he can return to Azkaban before the explosion to save his parents, sweep them out of the cell and into shelter.

He does not iron the details out with Blaise. Instead, he bids him goodnight and writes an owl to Potter in the kindest, most apologetic tone he can muster.

It will all be over soon. And they will be pleased when Draco tells them it was all his doing. No Dark Lord looming overhead to push him into these things, no elaborate plans coaxed by his father's urgent whispers in the dead of night, no maniacal ramblings from Aunt Bellatrix over his weaknesses to prod him forward out of necessity and fear. It is Draco's only hope. And he must not fail.

________

Draco wakes in a huddle, the scent of vomit and blood strong in the air. It is cold, the floor is hard against his bruised muscles, and as he sits up, the tangle of fear in his chest says _you know this place_.

Azkaban prison.

"You'd better sit back down."

Potter slides out of the shadows, his dark hair unkempt and tangled over his face, crawling likes spider's legs down his neck. His eyes are a dull green and no glasses mar his visage but a pair of large Quidditch-like goggles are propped up against the top of his head. He wears a long black trenched cloak that slithers against the floor when he walks and makes him look like an apparition made entirely of shadows. The room is so dimly lit, but Potter is eerily visible, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of darkness.

"He won't be pleased to find you conscious." Potter looks at him in a calculating, lustful way. "But he did say I could have you, even if you died."

Chills run up and down Draco's spine, spreading gooseflesh across his arms. He is drugged; that much is clear when he tries to speak and nothing comes out but drool. He cannot control his jaw or tongue. Potter looks amused.

"I must have miscalculated the amount of valerian roots to add to that draught," he says. Slowly, he approaches and crouches down before Draco, takes Draco's chin between his cool fingers in a tight, clawlike grip. "Oops. Never was very good at Potions, you know."

Draco is crying, but he cannot feel it anymore—all he feels is the infinite sadness in his failure, the realisation that he has broken something incredibly fragile. Everything is wrong and it is all his fault.

"What's the matter?" Potter glances aside, then back. "I thought you'd like sleeping beside them."

It is then that Draco notices he is not alone. Beside him lay the blue corpses of his dead parents. Draco cannot move when Potter touches him, cannot stop the hands that tear into his body or the hot length that pierces inside him until he is raw from it and screaming against the cold, unforgiving stone floor.

________

It is always cold this time of the year, blistering in the London evenings, but standing outside in the dead of winter, Draco is chilled to the bone as he waits at Potter's door. He is not surprised that Potter answers his owl and invites him over to the small flat in central Muggle London, nor surprised that Potter holds no grudge and seems to have forgotten any insults Draco flung at him the last time they were in a room together. The thing that surprises him most is the lack of enchantments on Potter's flat, the simple bolts in place that any wizard could easily uproot with childish spells. Some people will never learn.

Draco pulls his cloak tighter about his shoulders, huddles in to keep the chill out, but he doesn't have to wait very long for Potter to answer the door.

“Come in," Potter says.

Draco forces his most approachable smile. “You are quite kind to trust me, Potter.” Draco cannot help but eye him as they make their way into the modest flat, which is composed of light furniture and barely three rooms including the kitchen.

Potter grins. It is so unexpected that Draco’s smile falters.

“Feel free to drop the act, Malfoy,” Potter says. “I don’t exactly know why you wanted to meet me, but I can only assume you’d rather curse me than tell me I’m kind.” Potter draws a daring step closer to close the door, both brows raised in innocent question. “What’s going on that was so urgent?”

A lump forms in Draco’s throat, clogging his attempt at niceties. This will have to be done the hard way; much as he wishes he _could_ curse Potter without consequence, he isn't really sure if he could must the strength. “If you hadn’t noticed, my parents are dead. I was hoping...for a little compassion and some of the so-called detective work you and the Weasel and Weaselette seem to be known for.”

Potter’s lip twitches; Draco can’t tell if it’s part of his grin or a spiteful itch towards a grimace. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve already told Kingsley everything I saw, down to the last detail.”

“Think, Potter,” Draco insists, locking eyes with him. “Someone _murdered_ my parents. I think, given the circumstances, you would be keen to see justice done. If I were anyone else—"

"I'd be telling anybody else the same exact thing." Potter fidgets, hands in his pockets, then out, leaning against one leg, then another. Then, he sighs. "I wouldn't have wished that kind of death on anyone, least of all your mum."

The lump that has formed feels heavier now that Potter brings up his mother. A part of Draco is humiliated by the mere insinuation that Potter knows his mother better than him, while another part wonders if Potter could truly understand, having lost his parents well before Draco. There is a connection there, perhaps. One that Draco could twist to his own needs.

"She was already nearly dead anyway." Draco's chest constricts around the need to breathe; it hurts to think of her. "Wasting away in Azkaban—there's no life there. It made her a void of nothingness and withered memories."

Draco can tell instantly that Potter is uncomfortable. Potter shifts again, looks at him with a wide, open expression. Heart bared on his sleeve, Potter nods.

"That's why I tried to step in on her behalf," Potter says, reaching out to lay a hand on Draco's arm. Draco doesn't have the strength to jerk away, not with how intensely Potter holds his stare. "I was too late getting to the Ministry. The trial was over before I could put in my recommendations. I'm so sorry… I truly wanted her safe."

"And my father?" Draco snaps, eyes blistering and pulse racing under Potter's slack grip.

Potter's eyes harden a bit; his jaw clenches. "Made his own bed."

Draco laughs, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. Now is the time to play for sympathy, to jerk his shoulder free and step close, get up in Potter's face and make him face the reality of his decisions. "You would use your influence for one and not the other. What kind of god are you, Potter? So choosy, so callous."

"I'm not a god," Potter insists, frowning. "I'm just a man, the same as you, trying not to let one good person go to waste for crimes she was coerced into for the love of her family."

"Well, it's too late, Saint Potter," Draco spits. "A lot of good you've done, sending my mother to Azkaban to rot—"

"I didn't _send_ her—"

"And then watching her murdered and pretending you don't know who did it!" Draco steps even closer, his pale, pointed nose sharp in Potter's face, just daring him to grab the wand at his hip or give a shove to start something. "I think you know very well who did it—"

"Malfoy, I wouldn't—"

"And you're simply protecting someone! You don't truly give a damn about me, my family, or anyone but yourself and your little Gryffindor pals. And I wouldn't—"

"I thought it was _you_!" Potter yells.

For a moment, they stand in silence. Draco cannot believe what he is hearing. It takes time for the words to sink in, but once they have, the message is clear and insulting. Potter thinks…he actually _thinks_ …

"You thought _I_ killed my parents? You thought—"

"Whoever was there, he could have been your twin, that's all I know," Potter whispers.

His expression is so horrible and honest that Draco has to look away. He forgets for a moment that he has come to take control of his life and fix what has been done, Potter's words so jarring and out of the blue. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is someone trying to set him up? Is it a trick from Potter to somehow torment him beyond what could be construed as their normal bickering and spite? For some reason, Draco has a very hard time believing that last one. For as long as he has known Potter, he has never known him to be ceaselessly cruel.

"I don't know what I saw," Potter adds, laying a hand on Draco's shoulder again with that annoying way he has of making Draco feel guilty just living with his own insecurities. "But I thought it best not to worry Kingsley with this information, as it could have been detrimental to your freedom, which I worked hard to secure."

Draco looks up, eyes ablaze. That lump in his throat is back. Potter actually… "You spoke on my behalf," he says, simply, rushed out like a scoff from his pale lips and wet tongue. He cannot stop gaping at Potter like a nutter, his resolve slipping. "It's you. You're the reason I didn't go to Azkaban, the reason I'm not dead alongside my parents."

Potter nods, his gaze solemn and yet somehow warm. "You didn't need your life ruined. I didn't want it to be for nothing."

The choke in Draco's throat doesn't have much to do with his parents anymore. He is torn between demanding Potter tell him everything and doing what he came here to do. Maybe Potter doesn't deserve to be taken advantage of, to be used for Draco's ends, but no amount of tenderness can sway him. Even though Potter's hand weighs against his shoulder in a way that makes his stomach knot with all the unsaid things between them, he uses it against Potter.

One step forward unnerves Potter. Two has Potter's hand on his wand.

"Malfoy," he warns.

"You think I came just for my parents?"

Potter is weighing his response, gauging Draco, probably thinks there is something sinister in Draco's heart, and he is right. But it's impossible to know what he thinks when Draco is against his body and Potter's back is pressed to the wall and their mouths are moving in rushed, heated motions. It has taken them a lifetime to find this moment, so Draco knows he can be forgiven for his clumsy, shaking hands and the thought that maybe this is beyond just changing the past for his own gain. There is a moment when Draco loses sight of everything except Potter's tongue.

They clash like lightning, hands and teeth insistent. Potter's wand is forgotten as quickly as Draco sheds his robe and jumper. He grins at Potter's breathlessness, at the way Potter sways when Draco removes everything else and stands there waiting, beckoning, offering himself on a silver platter to Potter's itching needs.

Potter is on him again, like a ravenous thing, and Draco prizes himself on tearing Potter's t-shirt around the neck trying to get it over his head. They both pause to laugh, but Draco doesn't let Potter dwell on the calm hesitation—instead, he sinks to his knees and takes Potter in his mouth, whole, and brings him to his first climax of the evening.

By the time they stumble into the bedroom, Draco is too far gone to make it to the bed. Instead, he stretches out and braces himself against the nearest wall, tips his chin against his shoulder to beckon Potter, and just like that, they connect. Potter slams into him carelessly, grunts in his ear and bites his neck to leave marks that Draco hopes won't ever fade. Potter's abandon is reckless and bruising, his hands everywhere and his mouth breaking skin and leaving a trail of red welts every place it touches.

When Draco screams, Potter's hand is on his mouth. When Draco's knees threaten to give out, Potter's arms pin him to the wall. And when Draco comes, Potter is short to follow.

Over and done, Potter does what Draco expects—invites him into the warm bed, asks him to stay for a while, and falls asleep.

Draco waits for a long time, evens his breathing, because he knows Potter will be a light sleeper without waiting to find out if that's true—a lifetime spent trying to outrun demons and death will do that to people. It makes Draco think of his mother, of how twitchy and anxious she was when he saw her in Azkaban, just before the explosion, and it only steels his resolve to slip out of bed and do what must be done.

Strangely, the Time-Turner is easy to find. How Blaise knew about it being there is anyone's guess. In Draco's hands, it is surprisingly light. For a long moment, he stares at it in wonderment, breathing in and out slowly. The world seems to be slowing down around him, and he is ready.

"What are you doing?"

Draco whirls just in time to see Potter standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, his lips parted.

"Malfoy, no!"

Draco doesn't wait. He spins the pendant and watches time slip away.

________

Fed crumbs of bread and left to drink from a bucket of rainwater, Draco is not chained. He learns very quickly that there are worse things than being trapped by a bit of metal or rope. The slight freedom he perceives is nothing more than a trick, a joke for Voldemort and Potter and Bellatrix's amusement.

Draco makes the mistake early on of asking too much. Potter stares at him with a snarl on his lips when he asks when Potter switched sides.

"Switched?" Potter barks. " _Switched_?"

His callous laughter is all the answer Draco needs. Potter was always with Voldemort. In whatever delusional timeline Draco accidentally created, Potter is evil and on Voldemort's side through and through and Draco is their pathetic, sniveling prisoner, and the other side is losing the war that rages long after Draco knows it should have ended.

"What is he doing with the Time-Turner?" Draco asks one day, when Potter comes to throw him a slice of mouldy bread.

Potter has a funny look on his face when he asks, honesty bleeding through, "What's a Time-Turner?"

________

The first time, Draco goes back too far. An old Muggle nearly has a heart attack at the sight of Draco's sudden appearance, probably does have one at his just as quick disappearance.

Breathless, Draco tries again, lands himself in the middle of someone's dinner party.

Third time is the charm—the room is empty, a picture of Weasley and Granger on the mantle, their cheery faces waving happily from the frame. On his way out, Draco grabs one of Potter's spare cloaks and lifts the hood to cover his face.

At Azkaban, he creates a diversion with a simple explosive spell on one side and rushes to the other to free his parents. They look at him, bewildered but grateful. Draco feels, for the first time in many years, happiness. Everything is going to be all right.

"Put this around your neck, both of you," he says. "Hurry."

Before Draco can hook the chain around their necks, five Dementors swoop in from nowhere. Draco's happiness is choked away as they hover over his body, their mouths stretched and vulgar. Every joyful feeling inside is sucked dry, replaced by death, decay, fear, horror. His only chance is the flip of a dial on the Time-Turner, but he doesn't want to leave his parents, doesn't want it all to be for nothing.

In the end, he is weak and gives in to the fear, flicks the edge of the pendant, and all Draco can do is reach for his parents as time disintegrates before his eyes.

He goes back moments later, to just after the Dementors would swoop in, tries to distract them with another spell but again, he fails.

Three more times and Draco is growing easily frustrated and tired. He knows he is risking everything by returning over and over again, that he has altered time in some small way, but he hopes the end result is worth the damage done to the time frame. Finally, just as he thinks he may have failed for good, he is able to grab his mother's hand, then his father's, and he wraps them in the Time-Turner, foolishly flicking it forward in a rush to get away. When he opens his eyes, Potter stands before him, and something is terribly, terribly wrong.

"Avada Kedavra."

Draco screams, his parents falling limp at his sides, choked under the weight of the spell and the curse, dead before they hit the ground. Draco remains and wishes he didn't.

________

"You say this medallion alters time?" Voldemort asks, his fingers weaving over the small hourglass. "How?"

It has been hours. Tortured, beaten, raped, spat upon, inflicted with curse after curse, Draco relents to keep himself alive. His pulse is weak in his wrists, but he knows he has one last chance to set things right.

"I can show you," he whispers, wiping his tears as he slowly crawls towards Voldemort. "Please, let me show you. I can take you back anywhere you want to go, and you can change anything you want. There's no limit to the power you can wield with this."

Voldemort tries to read him and Draco is too tired to keep him out, so he concentrates on how much he wants to live, which is the most truthful thought in his head.

"Please," he begs, fingers trembling on Voldemort's feet.

"It's a trick," Potter growls at his side. "I know it. He's lying."

"And yet _you_ do not know how to work the medallion, Potter," Voldemort says. It seems to sting Potter, who slinks away like a snake, bowing all the way and whispering _My Lord_ like a litany. "Come here, Malfoy. Show me."

Draco is shaking as he stands and reaches for the Time-Turner. Voldemort lifts it out of reach, meets his wary gaze. "Slowly."

"Where do you want to go?" Draco asks once his fingers are around the chain. Voldemort has it wrapped around his neck, too smart to take it off. "Tell me and I will set the charms."

Voldemort considers, then answers, "1980."

Draco looks down at the hourglass, pretends that he is working out the mechanics, but really, he is calculating the odds of getting Voldemort's wand from him while he is distracted. He has to be ready, to see the moment as it comes, to be patient enough to wait for the exact second and hasty enough to get there before Voldemort.

"Here we go," he says, with all the certainty of someone who knows he has nothing left to lose.

The moment he begins to spin the dials, Draco can sense Voldemort's excitement. He is gripping Draco's arm so tightly that his nails are digging into Draco's skin and drawing blood.

"Hurry," Voldemort says. "Faster."

It is as if Voldemort does not understand the ease with which Draco could slow time down with this device. But he is counting on Voldemort's eagerness, his impatience.

When they stop, things don't look very different, except Azkaban is not in complete shambles. Voldemort glances around but does not let Draco go.

"Well?" he asks. "How do I know this is 1980?"

Draco is staring at Voldemort's wand. His fingers are slippery with sweat, so he wipes them on his tattered clothes and answers, as calmly as possible, "Let me consult the medallion. I can tell you with certainty in just a moment."

"Hurry!"

In the distance, Draco hears someone, a few people, chattering. He isn't sure, but he thinks perhaps, somehow, he has arrived to the precise moment he wants—the day his parents died at Azkaban prison. If the timeline is wrong, he has lost. If not, there is chance the only wizard who has ever been any match for Voldemort is just around the corner. His heart is beating faster as he pretends to fiddle with the pendant, careful not to turn it.

Voldemort is pacing, his pale face lit up with rage and excitement. When he finally lets go of Draco's arm, Draco knows it's now or never.

One swift move. Draco captures the wand, screams the first spell he can think of at the top of his lungs: " _Confringo!_ " The wand does not like him, but it obeys his command, because his intent to destroy Voldemort is so powerful that it simply cannot refuse.

Some distance away, Harry Potter looks up.

________

Harry is taking a tour of Azkaban prison when he hears it. A blasting curse. A few moments earlier, there was a chill in the air that he couldn't describe but that made his stomach clench up in knots.

The prison shakes a bit after the blast. The guards he is with tell him to get down. Their wands are drawn, but so is his. In the distance, he sees… But he tells himself it's impossible.

Several Aurors arrive on the scene, demanding answers. Nobody, except Harry, seems to have seen a thing. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were the only two inmates who die, which only confuses Harry further. If Malfoy _was_ involved…

In the wreckage, Harry finds a bit of chain, covered in blood, but nothing else. He goes straight to the Ministry, to meet with Malfoy and Kingsley. It isn't going to be pretty.


End file.
